


We Who Are About to Fall

by Sylvan



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvan/pseuds/Sylvan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an entry for the Highlander Quill Club's Swords at Sunset contest!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
**Swords at Sunset  
** [_"Harlequin, Schmarlequin, read me some slash."_](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Schmarlequin_Contests)  
Entry # eight  
We Who Are About to Fall

* * *

The afternoon light was dimming. The forest around Duncan MacLeod was graying. This was the magical time of year, between summer and winter, which whispered and spoke of death and life to come. He was twenty years old, and on his own. He had sought to prove himself by finding a mighty boar for the fall feast. When he had cornered the boar, he took a mis-step. The animal had rushed at him and caught him in the left leg. Duncan had escaped up a tree, but he knew the leg was broken.

He had hurt himself before, small injuries that throbbed and stung and incapacitated him a bit. This was deeper and alarmed him. He was not sure how badly it was broken. The sharp, stabbing pain had faded a bit, and he could feel his leg swelling within his boot. Frustrated, he camped out at the bottom of a huge, old tree. He would just have to cut himself a staff and brace the injured leg. He dared not put his weight on it. An earlier test had almost made him black out. The pain that tore at him was gut deep and made him giddy for a few moments. 

An older anguish almost replaced the pain of his injured leg. He needed to find a major game trail, then set some sort of trap. Otherwise he would have to return with nothing. 

He already had worse than nothing. Dougal had been gone a year. Deborah was chaste. Oh, Deborah. Now, when he was ready to marry, SHE would be the one. She would bear beautiful sons! Duncan was looking forward to begetting them. Deborah was tall for a woman. Her hair was as red as a fox's fur. Her eyes shone with sunlight, her skin was fair and soft. Her breasts were full and rounded. He had spent many an hour in contemplation of those breasts. Not to mention her equally rounded bottom. It was a pity her father kept her under such a close watch. 

Duncan was at that awkward age. He was too old to get a man for a lover and there were no boys in the proper age-range for him to take as a lover. Duncan had not been chaste since the day he knew enough to say yes to someone he wanted. Again, the thought came around: Dougal would not return for several months. Dougal towered over even Duncan's father. He of the huge muscles and a fair sized.... Damn it all, anyway. He had satisfied himself many nights over the last year, but it was so much better with someone else. Satisfying himself had no surprises. And his leg ached, damn it. 

The forest was quiet. Ever since Duncan had made camp, he had felt as if the world was holding its breath, as of some momentous occurrence waiting its moment. He had two hares, caught much earlier before he injured himself, roasting over the fire. It was a low, hot fire. It cast little smoke into the air to attract anyone's eyes. The embers were hot but the fire itself was not so bright. As the day was over and it was getting dark, he added more wood to raise the flames. He did not particularly like the darkness. There was still that feeling. That faint prickle upon his shoulders. Something was out there, watching him. Harvest season was both good and bad. It was the time when ghosts were free, preparing the way for the winter deaths. 

A noise whispered down from the tree above him. He looked up quickly. There! The branches shifted, the yellowish leaves rustled against one another. Something was coming down the tree and making no effort to hide itself. That meant it was no animal. Duncan's curiosity got the better of him. He stood up, carefully keeping his weight off of his injured leg, his sword at ready. "Who are you?" 

A strange face appeared among the branches. Duncan was startled by the beardless young man he saw above him. Long, dark hair hung down, bright eyes were far apart in a too-sharply boned face. The ridge of the nose was narrower than any man's he had ever seen, the mouth was small and curled mockingly at the edges. Duncan was annoyed by the outlandish youngster's obvious amusement. 

The boy spoke. "I'm no one." His voice was a complete surprise. It was no boy's voice but a man's. It curled and rolled deeply. Even in that short statement there was a musical, exotic quality to it. 

It sent a shiver through Duncan. Fae! Mary, Mother of God, please protect me. He shook his head, sure that this creature was attempting to cast a spell on him. He gripped the stone ring tied at his side. It was proof against magic, blessed by the Church. What am I afraid of? I have protection. "What are you doing up that tree?" 

"Hiding from my enemy. You aren't he. I didn't expect you to stay here." 

Duncan detected a note of exasperation in the magical voice. He smiled up at the pale, young face. "I'll stay anywhere I like!" he called. He had no intention of letting this stranger continue to laugh silently at him. "Come to me, or I won't let you out of the tree." He felt a heady sense of power as the other man's face went watchful, the faint smile vanishing. There was something about the man. Duncan felt drawn to him. Again he felt a sense of alarm. Like any good Scot, Duncan carried with him a chain of iron. He could use it to bind a witch or other magical being. Then, whatever he bound would have no power over him. As soon as he thought that, he felt better. 

The stranger came down. Duncan quickly reached into his pouch and drew out the iron chain. The pale man landed lightly, silently, in front of him and eyed him warily. Duncan held out the chain. "Fasten this 'round your neck." 

The man took it in his hands. They were large hands with broad, square palms and long fingers. He moved them with easy elegance. The amusement seeped back into his features, making his eyes warm and shine. "An iron chain. How quaint." He said nothing more and did as Duncan bade him. 

His eyes flashed when Duncan took his sword from him, but he remained silent, merely watching as Duncan carefully hobbled away and laid it on the opposite side of the fire. 

Duncan came back and leaned very close, the better to study this strange catch he had made. The man's skin was astonishingly pale under the normal dirt of a traveler. His eyes were large and of the most peculiar golden-brown color amidst thin features. He had a pronounced and rather oddly shaped nose. He was almost of a height with Duncan, just a bit shorter. He wore furs over woven wool garments. He met Duncan's curious gaze fearlessly. Fascinated, Duncan's thoughts turned to the thinness before him and he asked, "When did you eat last?" 

The question seemed to startle the man. He pursed his thin lips and frowned. "Yesterday, at nooning about." 

Duncan had to forcibly rein in the pity he suddenly felt. The devil or a Sidhe could use his feelings against him. "You may sup at my fire, if you serve me tonight." 

A hint of surprise appeared in the thin features. The man tilted his head and stared at Duncan. The expression in his eyes was difficult to interpret. It seemed peculiarly innocent, and yet knowing. Those eyes swept down briefly to rest on Duncan's sore leg. Finally, the man asked calmly, "If I serve you tonight, will you release me in the morning?" He fingered the chain around his neck, yet his gaze on Duncan seemed light as a feather and almost saucy. 

"I swear to God I will," Duncan replied solemnly. "What are you called?" 

An expression of amusement leapt across the man's face. "Call me Job." 

Could a fae know the Bible, Duncan wondered in surprise. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he replied. The man nodded acceptance. 

Duncan had Job remove the rabbits from the fire. He had roasted them, and did not want them to burn now that the flames were leaping higher. Job cut the meat off the rabbits in strips. Duncan was puzzled at first. He would have just held his rabbit and started to eat. Job came to kneel in front of him, then began to set bits of rabbit between his lips. With each tidbit, the strange man brushed Duncan's face with his fingers, head tilted slightly to gaze with that peculiar innocent curiosity. It was almost like being served by a woman. 

With a woman, a man could be tender. With a man, he was not supposed to be. That was the way Duncan had been raised. Job, however, seemed ignorant of those social customs. Duncan stopped worrying about magic. Job was bound. He was also not of the clan nor any neighboring tribe. If Duncan wanted to leisurely seduce him as though he were a woman, no one would know. 

When they had finished the rabbits, both faced the fire. Duncan pulled Job close in front of him. No longer hungry for food, he placed his hands firmly upon the mysterious man's body. Job sat still as those hands found their way through his clothing to touch his skin. 

As he moved his hands along Job's torso, Duncan was surprised. He had expected the man to be weak-limbed. Job was very thin, but his muscles were firm and hard. The man was trimmer than Duncan, who closed his eyes to savor the feel of the firm muscles he touched. Job's skin was cool. As Duncan's wandering hands parted his clothes and allowed the night air in, the man began to shiver. Duncan had enough sensitivity to recognize the reason for the shiver. He pulled Job tightly against his chest. He knew where to touch to heat the man up. All the places he liked to be touched. 

He sent his right hand up and began a slow circling of the nipples on the hairless chest. That had been something of a surprise. No hair on a man? The nubs were already taut from the chill air and his touch drew a small sound from the other man. Job suddenly shifted a hand back and began to knead Duncan's crotch. Duncan caught his breath at the pleasure that shot through him, and switched hands under Job's clothing. He slid his left up to the man's mouth, asking for entry. Job opened his lips and licked and sucked on the fingers. 

The sensations were too much for Duncan. He swiftly bared Jobs' buttocks and bent him over. Job shuddered, his breath coming in quiet, husky pants. Duncan, leaning on his right arm and bracing his body against Job's, forced a wet finger in. The skin that closed around him was hot, somehow carrying strength even there, between the hard buttocks. Feeling the tremors that ran through the man, he pulled out and thoroughly wetted his fingers with his spit. He pushed two fingers inside Job. A gasp acknowledged his actions. He slid his fingers most of the way out then back inside with a hard jab. 

Job's voice, used for the first time since he had acquiesced to Duncan's demand, whispered hoarsely, "Get it over with." 

Duncan shifted, resting his weight on his right leg and ran his other hand down between Job's legs. The man was hard and pushed forward into Duncan's hand. His manhood was impressively long and thick. Deciding the reason for his words was desire rather than protest, Duncan did what he could to stoke the desire higher. He moved his fingers slowly in and out. Job's body twisted. He tried to impale himself on Duncan's fingers, and to spear the hand on his crotch. Unable to hold himself any more on that lone leg, Duncan shifted his hand up to Job's chest, using the man to counterbalance him. Job turned his head back, his mouth open and Duncan kissed him, enjoying the feel of open reception and begging need, and the tongue that reached for him and sent heat through his body. 

Duncan continued to slide his other fingers slowly back, and then violently forward. Job met each jab, small cries torn from him. Soon, Duncan knew that it was time, and he replaced the fingers with his manhood. The first thrust forced a hoarse shout from Job's throat. As Job pushed back against him, Duncan let go and continued to pump in and out. The heat surrounding him and squeezing on him drew him faster. He was able to rest his weight on his left knee without jarring the injured ankle too badly. He gripped Job's shoulders, digging in tightly. He could hear his own breathing, as ragged as Job's, and feel the heat generated between their bodies. He was turning inside out with the sheer pleasure of it and his cry joined Job's as their bodies found release.  


* * *

There was a sudden lurch and Duncan opened his eyes to see the branches near him waving wildly. It took him a moment to register that Job was gone. Dawn's dim light brightened the camp and he sat up, blinking. Then behind him he heard the sound of a horse galloping toward the camp. Duncan collected his sword and levered himself quickly to his feet, shaking the sleep out of his eyes. The horse burst into the clearing, its rider towering over Duncan. Slowed down as he was, he could not raise his sword to defend himself. The rider kicked it out of his hands and landed on top of him. Duncan was on the ground with a blade at his throat before he even knew what had happened. It was only sheer luck that he did not land on his injured leg. 

"WHERE IS HE?" the man demanded. 

"Who?!" Duncan managed to gasp out. "Get off me!" He punched at the face over his. The man punched back, fist cracking against Duncan's jaw with startling force. Duncan was dazed. 

The man's blade bit into his throat. Fierce, piercing blue eyes bore into his. "I know he was here. I felt him. Now, WHERE is he?" 

"I don't know! He was gone when I woke!" Duncan struggled with the panic he felt. This man had "felt" Job? What sort of creatures were they? The man wore sheets of metal like the knights in the old stories. His eyes looked crazed. 

They bore into Duncan's, and suddenly the malice took on a more directed shine. An ugly smile spread across the reddish face. "Well, Herodotus! What a gift you've left me!" the man shouted to the woods. "Quite a lot of potential here! I'll just take this one in your stead!" 

Duncan would have loved to struggle, but the blade at his throat was unyielding and sharp. The madness in the eyes of the man who had him pinned was daunting. The man's hand flew at him again and slammed into his chin repeatedly. Light flared around him with the pain and when his vision cleared he found his wrists manacled together. He shook his head and his vision blurred. Then he was jerked forward and up, pivoting madly as he tried to keep off his left leg. 

The man had knotted a rope through Duncan's manacles. Mounted, he held the other end and directed his huge, blood bay horse to a fast walk. The unyielding rope pulled Duncan after them. Inevitably, he went off-balance and his full weight settled on the injured leg. 

The pain he had felt earlier, when he had carefully tested his ankle, was nothing in comparison with this. It went straight through every bone in his body. An agonizing, searing, blinding pain that drove him senseless. He was on the forest floor, blinking up at the overcast sky visible between the trees. Laughter rang harshly in the air. 

"You aren't as strong as you look!" 

The man used the rope to pull Duncan to his feet and drag him to the horse's side. Duncan could not put any weight on his left ankle without collapsing, and he leaned trembling against the bay, his arms pulled across the animal's withers. The crazy man dismounted, keeping the rope taut, and jerked Duncan's boot off. The young Highlander bit his lip to keep from crying out as the man manipulated his leg. The pains struck at him like little whips whose edges somehow embedded themselves into his bones. 

"Broken leg. Perhaps I should put you out of your misery." Hands tested the resilience of his muscles and pinched at his sides. "You barbarians are filthy. Do you never bathe? Too much flesh on your bones, boy. Too soft. I should just kill you." 

"You might kill me, but you'll never get my soul!" Duncan snapped angrily. 

The hands touching him went still. Frightened by the sudden silence, he turned his head and found that the man was staring at him. The crazed expression had been replaced by one of intense deliberation. 

"You are so right, boy." The gaze suddenly snapped brightly on him, and he almost cringed. "I'll just see if I think your potential is worth keeping you for a time before taking your head." 

What..? The man's hard left hand closed about Duncan's injured ankle and twisted it, the pain almost blinding as his leg was lifted. The right hand slid under his kilt and up between his thighs. Duncan would have struggled when he felt fingers shove into his anus. However, at that moment the man dug his other fingers hard into Duncan's ankle, grinding on the injured bone and the young man's muscles turned to jelly. All that kept him up was the horse he leaned against and the grip of his enemy. For a moment, all he was aware of was the pain in his ankle. Then the fingers inside him shifted and a terrifying, yet familiar pleasure joined the pain. 

Duncan could not breathe. He struggled against the two growing sensations. They began to overlap. He whimpered at the feeling of leather against his trembling chest, and the feeling of his manhood pressed against the horse's flank. Impossibly, the pain in his ankle flared suddenly and Duncan cried out. Blackness seared his vision and when it passed, he found the fingers had been replaced with the other man's member. With this less directed touch the pleasure no longer swept so high; but it had already drawn him painfully erect. 

When the man finished and withdrew, Duncan no longer had anything to keep him up and he slumped, sliding down the horse's flank. He choked with each breath. Then a hand closed around his hard manhood, another one dug into his right shoulder and drew him painfully back up. 

"Much too soft. Still, that won't take long to change." 

He was released, and the other man mounted the bay. Then a hand fisted into his hair and another hooked under his buttocks. He was hauled upwards to lie in front of the man and across the horse's withers. Duncan tried desperately to lift his head and memorize the course they took as the man urged his horse into a swift canter.  


The horse was trotting, each step jerking him. They rode into a small camp. Duncan saw two men on guard. There were three horses very similar to the one he was on. A large wagon was at one end of the camp, and two other horses, grays, were tethered near it. Just as he took that all in, hands dug in to his shoulders and threw him off the horse. He landed on his back, his breath knocked out. Shaking his head to clear it, he rolled over onto his right side and tried to get up. That was a mistake. His left ankle buckled under him and he collapsed, unable to hold himself up with his wrists manacled together. He was not even aware of the cry that broke from him. 

"Not much endurance, either," the man commented. 

He shuddered and turned his head to see the crazy man above him. He told himself there was nothing drawing him to this creature, nothing fascinating about him. There was only a terrible nausea in the pit of his stomach. Yet the man's eyes gleamed with a compelling light, however frightening it was. Job, or Herodotus, had been fleeing this man. Duncan had very nearly caused his capture, only to be taken as replacement. Well, the joke was on the man. Duncan doubted he would be much of a replacement for the sensual Job. Nothing strange had happened on the ride. No faerie gates opened in the hills. Somehow he would escape and make his way home to Glenfinnan. 

There were a few tents; cloth and oiled skins covering stout wooden posts to make shelters. The man pulled Duncan to his feet and helped him walk inside one. At the center of the tent was a separate stout post. After careful consideration, the man tied Duncan's wrists so high that he had to stand on the toes of the one foot that could support him. Duncan swallowed and leaned on the post. "What are you going to do with me?" he asked, dismayed to hear how small his voice was. 

The other man ignored him this time. He began removing Duncan's clothes. What could not be taken off because of the shackles and rope, he cut off. Finished, he ran his hands down Duncan's sides, again pinching at the skin. He brushed his fingers between the helpless young man's legs. Duncan felt his fear curl higher and closed his legs tightly, trying to put the pole between himself and the other man. Again, the man's hand closed on his injured ankle. If possible, it hurt more than it had before and Duncan lost control of his legs, moaning as his weight went full on his manacled wrists. Again, the man moved his fingers into Duncan's anus and stroked the point that gave such frightening pleasure no matter what the rest of the body felt. Duncan hid his face against the pole, horrified at his body's response. 

The man leaned in, his weight forcing Duncan to rub against the pole, his fingers giving both pleasure and bone-jellying pain. "I'm going to improve your endurance and trim you down." Duncan's manhood swelled as the madman breathed words into his ear. "He had you last night, didn't he?" 

"No," Duncan managed to reply. It was only the truth. He suddenly wished it were not. Then this overwhelming feeling would not be so new to him. Job's sensuality left no doubt that he could have shown Duncan pleasure beyond anything the young MacLeod had experienced before. This... this crazy man, though he forced pleasure upon Duncan, was brutal, taking full advantage of Duncan's injury. Job was like... like an angel by comparison. He had not hurt Duncan at all. 

The man laughed in his ear. "Oh, I know he did." Then he crushed Duncan's ankle and as the young Highlander began to pass out from the pain, did something inside him that somehow exploded pleasure until everything went black.  


Duncan regained consciousness. He was no longer in agony, but his leg ached dully, and the skin from his chest to his groin felt raw. He was on his knees, the ropes holding him against the pole loosened enough to let him kneel. He could not swallow, his mouth was dry and he worked to bring up some spittle. He became conscious of movement nearby and turned his head. 

A naked woman moved towards him with a pan in her hands. She was gaunt, starving. Her cheeks were hollows, her eyes sunken in her face. Her pale hair hung limp. There was symmetry in the angles of her face, in the balance of her dark-nippled breasts. If she only had enough to eat, she would plump out and be very beautiful, he thought. She crouched and placed the pan behind him. 

He worked his throat. "Water, please?" 

She did not seem to hear him. She simply got up and exited the tent, her shoulders hunched and head down. 

It was later that it became obvious what the pan was for. Duncan, afraid of the unknown consequences if he did not use it, finally did. The woman appeared again. She obviously had been waiting. She removed the pan and returned with it empty. She cleaned him off and vanished again. 

Darkness settled. In the black tent, shivering in the chill air and trying not to think about how dry his throat was and the emptiness of his stomach, Duncan's thoughts swung back to Job. The thinness made sense, now. This crazy man liked his slaves starved to the edge of death. Duncan shivered. Though he had not known it at the time, he must have taken advantage of Job. The escaped slave, clearly accustomed to being used for this man's pleasure, probably thought he had to allow Duncan to take him. If I escape, I'll find you. Tell you how sorry I am. Give myself to you. Granted, by his people's custom Duncan was too old to be taken. So was Job, though ignorant of the fact. Duncan's flesh crawled and his shivering increased to violent shudders before the chill passed. If he escaped. 

He woke as he was entered. The force of the entry shoved his body against the post and he had to brace himself away from it as he was invaded to keep from being rubbed raw again. This time it simply hurt, and his throat was too dry to utter more than hoarse gasps. Finishing, the man withdrew. Duncan cringed as he felt a hand grip deep in his hair. The man pulled Duncan's head back and squirted water into his throat. Relief knifed through his body. He swallowed the water but it was gone too quickly. 

"You want more?" the man asked him, breath warm on his ear. 

His flesh crawling, he mustered defiance. "Not from the likes of you!" 

The man laughed low in his throat and took the water away.  


Duncan was left alone for the rest of the day. By late afternoon, he was nearly unconscious from lack of water and his stomach's emptiness overrode the dull ache in his leg. He leaned against the pole and wondered dully if the madman would come and give him water again. He needed liquid desperately. His mind was fogging with the need. He shuddered slightly, as it occurred to him that if he cooperated, he would surely be treated more gently. His thoughts circled around, as they often did, to the mysterious pale man. Job had not been cowed by this man. Job had escaped this and there were not many guards. Sneaky, he must have pretended to be broken, then waited for a moment of carelessness and slipped away. Not that recently, Duncan guessed, or he would have looked as starved as the woman. 

Duncan's heart skipped a beat. Blackness swept across his vision in blobs. Am I dying? he wondered. Hard fingers laced into his hair and pulled his head back. The crazy man again, pouring liquid slowly down his throat. Duncan's thoughts went blank as he desperately swallowed. The liquid was some sort of fermented drink, perhaps mead. It sent his head spinning horribly but at the same time filled his stomach with its thickness. Why does Job matter so much to you? 

"A good question. I will answer." 

It took Duncan a moment to realize he had asked his question aloud. His whirling head was leaking thoughts. 

A sound, as of a stool scraping across the ground, and the madman was seated beside him. The man laughed, then began to speak. "My father was a senator in Rome. Herodotus was a slave from Athens. Father bought him to have him educate me in all matters Greek. He was a fine teacher, I learned a great deal. He was also a fine slave. My father kept him the nights. I had him the days. And then one day my father's enemies tried to kill us. Father died, and I learned that I was not as other men." He stopped speaking to take a long drink of the mead. Setting his mug down, he continued. "Nor was Herodotus. He undertook to teach me what I was. In teaching me, he forgot his place. He kept telling me I could not do things. That there were certain things I HAD to do. He told me our kind could not keep each other as slaves." The madman leaned forward, his gaze intense. "I had him flogged within an inch of his life, to remind him of his place. When he recovered, he became a good slave again, but he stopped teaching me. 

Eventually, my associates realized that I was different. Instead of honoring me, as they should have, they attacked my household and I was forced to flee. I didn't see Herodotus again for decades. He had forgotten his place again. I tried to remind him of the obedience he owed me, and he fled." Suddenly, the madman smiled coldly. "Actually, he tried to take my head. My guards protected me. It's become a tradition of ours. I come after him, and he cuts a swath through my guards trying to get me. I have only a few guards left from this generation's crop. The last time I almost caught him, I had to settle for his wife and her two children." 

Duncan shuddered. He had known from the moment he laid his eyes on Job that the man was no mere mortal. If this crazy man was like Job, Duncan could not see it. Still, he believed what he was hearing. Something in him bent to the breaking point. There seemed no avenue of escape for an ordinary man like himself, especially with his broken leg. In his mind's eye, he imagined himself as starved and empty eyed as the slave-woman. 

Fingers bit into his chin and turned his head to meet the madman's eyes. "Actually, I believe you had him." The man's right hand closed on Duncan's ankle and clenched. Duncan was too tired to even flinch at the pain; it simply joined the other agonies of his body. "He gave himself to you. Certainly you couldn't have forced him, with this leg. For that, you will suffer." He shoved Duncan's legs apart and positioned himself to enter the young man. "You really should keep your hands to yourself."  


Duncan MacLeod did not think about the things that were done to him. All he could think was that he could do nothing to stop it. He had no command over his bodily responses. Pain, pleasure, both existed at the wish of another. He could not return to Glenfinnan. He could not hide what had happened to him. Everyone would know. 

In the dark of the night, the sound of metal on metal jerked him from his dehydrated daze, and he thought he heard someone shouting. He could not make out the words. He closed his eyes, but each sound of metal clashing sent a cold shiver through him. Then there was a terrible crash of metal, and silence fell. 

Pressure suddenly built all around him. His ears popped and the sensation was gone, but outside the tent he could hear what sounded like a storm. Lightning flashed. The tent lurched as though it had been struck solidly. Duncan thought he could hear a man utter a low, wordless cry of anguished despair that spoke to him. I know how you feel, he thought. Then the tent brightened. It was on fire. Duncan watched the flames numbly as they climbed the hides. 

The tent entrance flew open as a man rushed through it. He slashed at the ropes holding Duncan to the post. It was Job, or Herodotus. He caught the stunned young man, levered him to his feet and dragged him out of the tent, past a number of dead bodies to fetch up against a large tree. Job ignored the flaring tents and began removing Duncan's manacles. In shock, Duncan finally closed his eyes and retreated into senselessness.  


He woke to find himself wrapped in warm furs. Hesitantly, he breathed in the smells around him. The scent of cooked meat made his mouth water. When he turned his head, he saw the slave woman sitting beside him. She was clothed in a simple dress. He thought dazedly that she looked puzzled. She held a skin in her hands, which she dipped toward him. He opened his mouth and tasted a thick liquid. It was warm and surprisingly good. He did not recognize it. 

Job appeared over the woman's shoulder. "Not too much," he admonished gently. She obediently took the skin away. At Job's gesture, she moved back from them and out of Duncan's sight. Job gently uncovered Duncan's injured leg and looked at it critically. To the young man's surprise, his leg had been set and dressed. He felt no pain at all. Job was nodding calmly. "It will be as good as new. I knew what to do." Now his eyes swept Duncan's face, brow furrowing with concern. "How are you?" 

Duncan sat up, the furs slipping off his shoulders. The cold fall breezes made him tremble and he drew a sharp breath. He stared at Job, marveling at the clean beauty of the man's features, at the steady rationality in his eyes. Duncan thought hopelessly, He could never want me. 

Job reached out and cupped Duncan's chin in his palm. His hand was warm. "We bathed you-" he stopped speaking with a gasp. 

Duncan had tilted his head and rubbed his face against Job's palm. He caught the man's longest fingers and sucked them into his mouth, stroking them with his tongue. He closed his eyes and imagined Job's manhood, his palms tingling with the memory of its length and thickness. He wanted to have Job inside him. He also felt that he was far too small and insignificant to deserve a man with the strength to survive and escape from that madman. 

He did not know that he was weeping until Job leaned forward and licked the teardrops off of his cheek. "Steady, Duncan MacLeod." 

At that he sobbed. You care. You care about me. He crawled forward into Job's arms and rubbed himself against the other man. "Please," he managed to whisper. Take me. Job's breath was coming faster and his arms tightened around Duncan's shoulders. Suddenly he pulled the young man's head up and kissed him. Duncan felt as though his entire body burned. The tongue stroking into his mouth was incredible, but it was being too gentle for the likes of him. He opened his mouth wider and spread his legs, stroking Job's magnificent manhood through the cloth covering it. 

Suddenly, Job pushed him away and forced him down on his back. The face looking down at him was troubled, eyes deep wells searching his. He could not identify the thoughts flickering across that face. Suddenly, Job smiled down at him. It was a small, mysterious smile which held a hint of sadness. Job bent down slowly. Hypnotized, Duncan stared as the other man hovered just above his left nipple. When Job's lips finally closed over the small, taut flesh, Duncan's whole body jerked. As it continued, teeth were brought into play to scrape his skin. 

Duncan groaned. His hand twitched. He wanted to pull Job's face harder against him. In his mind's eye, he suddenly saw the mad blue eyes of the Roman. Sheer terror iced through him. He knew himself to be a coward. He was no longer fit to be the son of a clan chieftain. He could not become a chieftain. He could not command men and lead them into battle. "Please," he whispered to Job, "I want to be your slave." 

Job brushed his fingers across Duncan's lips. "Take off my clothes." 

Duncan obeyed, trembling afterwards as he stared at the other man's body. Long and lithe, trim and muscular. So much more than I could ever be, he thought. 

Job cupped his chin. "You will take me, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." 

Duncan quaked, shrinking. "I can't... not me, I'm nothing-" 

Job's hand closed over his mouth firmly. "You can. Lucius has destroyed many people. I won't let him win this time." He moved his hand to stroke Duncan's hair. "You are so much more than I am." 

Those words, echoing his own previous thoughts, stunned Duncan. Yet he could not move forward. His manhood shrank. Job pushed Duncan down again on the furs. He stroked the young man's body firmly for a short time, then bent and took Duncan's manhood in his mouth. Hot, warm and wet. A tongue that curled and flicked. Sucking tantalizing as fingers played across his chest. As his member hardened, Duncan began to feel that wonderful, overwhelming sensation, forcing him to move. His body seemed astonished that there was no pain. He thrust his hips upward as his mind went blank with need, little mewling cries escaping his throat. 

Job released his manhood and straddled him. Duncan stared blankly up at Job. Again, Job caught Duncan's chin in one hand, making their eyes meet. The young man felt light as a feather, blown on the wind and Job was one of the lochs, upon whose surface he was slowly touching down. Slowly... his thoughts scattered in a thousand directions as silken heat closed around his manhood. He felt the shudder that ran through Job's entire frame. Job's mouth dropped open and he groaned as he sank upon Duncan. The young Highlander thrust upward into the blazing heat even as he wondered how Job had known such an act was possible. 

Job dropped his hands onto Duncan's chest and braced himself. He shifted his fingers to stroke the young man's nipples. Duncan's heart slammed in his chest and he writhed, locking his hands onto the graceful hips and pulling Job more tightly on him. His wrist brushed Job's manhood and he loosed one hand to wrap it around the proud flesh. He stroked a few times, his own body blazing and silently screaming pleasure at him. The silk surrounding him tightened, loosened and then began doing so erratically as liquid seeped from the head of Job's manhood. Job fought the orgasm, moaning fitfully and tossing his head. He reached his right hand down to push Duncan's away and Duncan quickly threw Job's other hand off his chest, bringing Job crashing down. Duncan almost lost it then, but he caught the man's lips with his own, curling up and thrusting as hard as he could into Job's body. 

It was Job, now, who writhed frantically, his manhood trapped between them. His body began spasming. Hot liquid spouted between their stomachs to quickly cool and the wrest of Job's orgasm sent Duncan over the edge, gasping and nearly blacking out. His head spinning, he sobbed with relief that he was capable of pleasuring Job. 

"Will you keep me?" he whispered later into Job's right ear. 

Job stroked his face. "I can't keep you. Someday you'll need a proper teacher. Not me. Look how I failed with Lucius." 

Duncan shook his head. "You didn't fail. He was a devil." 

Job laughed. He ran his knuckles along Duncan's chest. "You'd make a terrible slave, always contradicting your masters. They don't like that, you know." 

The words were friendly, but Duncan felt them like blows. He curled up. He must be utterly worthless. Job did not want him. Where would he go? His father would despise him. He thought, He is handsome, brave and smart. No wonder he doesn't want me. 

"Duncan!" Job called him sharply. 

Frantic, he uncurled and met the blazing, angry eyes. He wanted to cringe away from Job's obvious fury. Job's lips were tight and the man gestured for Duncan to lie down on his back on the furs. Obeying quickly, terror growing in his body, Duncan stared into the darkness of those eyes. 

Job placed his hands on either side of Duncan's shoulders and gazed down at him. The silence stretched. Duncan's body began to tingle. He felt almost as though his skin was being gently lifted off of him. Job spoke slowly, firmly. "Close your eyes." 

Duncan obeyed, then was not sure he had. Though his vision turned gray, Job remained at the center of his sight. The man bent down and kissed his lips tenderly. Framing Duncan's face in his hands, he said softly, "I am going to make you forget Lucius and everything he did to you. You might remember someday, when you are older and have more experience. When you are too strong for it to break you." 

His field of vision went black. Job glowed at its center. Awed, Duncan whispered, "Will I remember you?" 

"No." 

Duncan trembled. "I don't want to forget you." 

Job bent down again, bringing his face close. His breath was warm. If Duncan had not already closed his eyes, he would have. "My name is Methos." 

Shock riveted through Duncan. His true name. It fit him so well that it drove the other names, Job and Herodotus, from Duncan's mind. He saw in Methos' eyes that the man would still take away his memory. "Will I ever see you again?" 

Methos smiled. "Perhaps. If you live long enough. But you probably will not remember me." He laid his fingers across Duncan's lips to halt the protest forming there. "It's time." 

Methos vanished. The blackness was complete. Duncan was floating, like that feather carried on the wind over a loch. Slowly, then faster and faster, he began to spin. He felt something fall away from him and had no idea what it was. The sensation increased, he was lightening every moment. He clung hard to one thing that mattered while nothing else seemed to. Methos. The word meant nothing, but he was convinced of its importance. He managed to hold it, though it became shrouded in veils. He finally stopped spinning and the darkness closed about him, warm and loving. Safe, he slept. 

* * *

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod opened his eyes with the sunrise. He stretched slowly, enjoying the clean feeling of his youthful body. Even the twinge of his injured leg did not sour his mood. He felt so good! It was only when he sat up that he began to wonder why. It was just yesterday that he had been moping about Deborah and Dougal. He laughed at the thought and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. When his vision was clear, he gaped at the sight that greeted him. 

A fair-sized cart, with two big gray horses in the traces. Duncan climbed carefully to his feet, then stopped and looked down at his leg. It had been set, braced and wrapped. The dressing was clean and stout. He looked around frantically. This was the camp he had made and bedded down in last night. At his feet lay a staff. When he lifted it, he found it was exactly the right length for him. With a strangled laugh, he went to look at the cart. 

A huge, dead boar lay in the back of the cart. Duncan shook his head violently, laughing harder. God the Father! Surely he had been blessed! Had God sent this in his time of need? Or perhaps a Sidhe prince? 

He frowned and closed his eyes. Something flickered in his memory. Something about luminous golden-bronze eyes. He remembered legends of people who met the Sidhe and afterwards came home to find that years, sometimes centuries, had passed while they spent a mere night in the shadow lands. Oh dear God! 

He broke camp and climbed into the driver's seat of the cart. Clucking to the horses, he set off for Glenfinnan. As he drove, he noticed with hope that the trails seemed to be the same as he remembered. 

Duncan MacLeod arrived home to a commotion of greatly relieved people. He had been gone for five days. The village elders hemmed and hawed over his report. Everyone came to study the wagon and the horses with great curiosity. There was considerable consternation over whether of not the boar was safe to use in the feast, which had been delayed because Duncan was missing. At last it was decided that there was nothing wrong with the boar or the horses and cart. 

No matter how hard Duncan tried, he never recalled what had happened between the day he camped under that tree and the day he woke. It was the strangest thing that ever happened to him until another day, fifteen years later, when he died and stood back up again.


	2. Impending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't leave it like that.

"Make love to me, MacLeod," breathed that familiar, deep voice in his ear.

He smiled and rolled over. Methos in firelight, under the trees of a Highland forest, dark hair long and eyes alight with desire. Methos. Duncan reached out and snagged his hips, pulling him on top and crushing their pelvises together. Methos closed his eyes and rubbed against Duncan, who groaned happily. "You think you can ride me, Old Man?" 

Methos' eyes shot open, gleaming with mischief. "I ride better than you do, Young Man." 

"Oh yeah? Show me!" 

Methos grinned and reached down to grip Duncan's erection. With an undulation of his hips, he slid onto it. The tightness and heat of him abruptly surrounded Duncan, who let out a breath of harsh delight. 

Then Methos was riding, his hands dancing across Duncan's chest, sometimes gripping powerfully enough to bring a cry of pleasure. Duncan caught Methos' hips and tried to control the pace of their movement. He was reaching for his lover's cock to return the rising pleasure when a bizarre noise broke the silence of the woods. 

Like a weird, ululating scream from nowhere, but it opened Methos' eyes and parted him from Duncan. He fled into the darkness, not seeming to hear Duncan's desperate cry. 

Duncan MacLeod sat up in bed, reaching forward into the shadows. "Methos!" The ringing of his alarm clock. THAT was what had awoken him. That was what, this time, had sent his dream-Methos running into the night. He hit the button to silence it and rubbed his face, chuckling. Perhaps his subconscious was trying to tell him something, because Methos always ran from their bed in his dreams. Of course, usually it was AFTER the sex. 

One of these days I'm going to get him in my bed for real. Then I'll see if he runs away. For now, however, Duncan had to calm his body a little before his morning jog. He rubbed his hard-on through the sheets. "You really want to be inside him, don't you?" he told it. He snorted and shook his head. He never dreamed of Methos in him, just him entering Methos. Did that mean he was unwilling to be bottom? If he did ask Methos to be his lover, and the old man wanted to be top, would he do it? It would hardly be fair if he did not. 

He laughed at himself, slowly rubbing his erection. "You won't let a little thing like that get in your way, will you?" he asked it. As usual it gave no response, but he said, "Hah! I thought not." Then again, it was an interesting question. He patted himself and got to his feet. Stretching to calm his excitement first, he then walked to his refrigerator and opened it. Ah, there it was. He brought out the cucumber he had intended to use as part of a salad that evening. 

He studied the vegetable critically. It was not even half as wide as his erection, though it was as long. He waggled it and walked back to the bed with it. Pointing at it cheerfully, he said, "Forget the jog, you're going to help me with a little practice." He thought, I am a virgin. Must try to accustom myself to the idea with something smaller. In Duncan's dreams, Methos always had an impressive erection. 

He pulled the lubricant out of his drawer and liberally coated the vegetable with it. Can't be too careful, he thought amusedly. His erection bobbed insistently, expressing its own interest in the proceedings. He grinned and rubbed it briskly. With a final pat, he lay down on his back and bent his knees, spreading his legs. He put the end of the cucumber against his anus and began to push. 

Whooo! It was cold! He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, continuing to slowly push it in. His body protested, his anus burning. He felt his erection waning and loosed one hand to rub it. Gamely, it returned. He gasped slightly. Okay, he thought. For one thing, Methos' penis won't be cold! He laughed and bit his lip as he pushed the cucumber further in. 

Such a strange feeling. Like being inside out. He supposed he could get used to it. And enough stimulation in other areas could make anything bearable. Imagining it warm and thicker, he gasped as a sudden burst of pleasure spiralled up his body. It was easy to call up an image of Methos, naked. Guessed at muscles taut on that fine chest as he thrust into Duncan's body. 

Duncan began pumping the cucumber gently as the pain he had initially felt faded, and the cold was less intense as his body heated the vegetable. In his mind, it was no longer himself and a vegetable. He stroked his cock, squeezing the tip as Methos pushed into him. His entire body flamed with need, his nipples ached and he pinched one, then the other. He whispered through his tight throat, "Methos! Yes...." 

There was a strained pain when he pushed the cucumber farther in, but it was overridden by the orgasm which sprang upon him. He curled up, pumping into his hand, holding the cucumber inside with his other hand as he felt himself squeezing it with his ass. He bit into the pillow under his head, his mouth tingled. He groaned and moaned until the orgasm eased, hearing the beat of his heart in his ears, feeling it throb in his groin. 

Okay. I can handle this. So Methos'll be bigger and I won't have control over it, but I can handle it. 

They would have dinner together this evening, and if he had to, he would crawl on his knees and beg Methos to make love to him. 

* * *

"MacLeod, are you all right?" Methos asked him.

Duncan had just endured watching Methos eat the salad he had made. Heat coursed through him every time the bites included a bit of cucumber. I am definitely perverted, he thought, restraining the urge to laugh. "Oh, I'm just fine," he managed to reply. He had peeled the cucumber. Methos was not going to TASTE anything. He watched avidly as the old man lifted another bit with a piece of cucumber in it. 

Methos eyed him dubiously and set his fork down. "Your face is bright red." 

And getting redder, Duncan thought as he felt a wave of embarrassment. "I was just thinking," he tried to say innocently. He thought he managed rather well. Thinking about your mouth and kissing you. Thinking about you going down on me. Thinking about you inside me. Shit. He took a deep breath and sipped his wine. He was not going to get up for a while. 

Methos took a sip of his own wine. "What were you thinking about?" he asked with friendly curiosity. 

Duncan looked for something suitably innocuous that might also get Methos thinking. Oh, now this might do it. "About you and me." Methos blinked at him with wide-eyed curiosity. He elaborated. "I keep mixing you up with me in my dreams." 

Methos frowned and considered that statement. "You mean like when you dreamed I killed Richie?" 

"A bit like that, yes." Oh, that was no dream. It was a vision of what might have been. You stripped of happiness, left only with hate. You without me. And now I cannot really imagine me without you. 

Methos suddenly looked down. "At least now your face isn't red," he said softly. 

Yes, the embarrassment had been replaced by sorrow. Looking at Methos he felt the sorrow fade to become again that feeling of intrigued desire. With a sense of mischief he asked, "Do you ever mix me up with you?" 

Methos lifted his head, eyes wide and sparkling. "I never dream of being a boyscout!" His eyes narrowed and he ducked his chin, a mischief-filled smile on his face. "So what have you dreamed?" 

Deliberately, Duncan smiled a slow, lazy smile. He was trying for the kind of smile that promised languorous sex. You can do this, you can hint at what you feel, he told himself. "I dream of you and I in the Highland woods. We're alone by a campfire." He chuckled suddenly. "Your hair is long." He risked a glance at Methos. The old man was watching him cautiously, eyes intently studying his face. He did not like that serious expression. He asked cautiously, "Do you ever dream like that?" 

Methos eyes became shuttered. "Sometimes I cannot really distinguish my dreams from my memories," he admitted reluctantly. 

After five-thousand years, perhaps so, Duncan thought. It occurred to him that such might trouble Methos. He made his voice gentle, steering away from innuendo for the moment. "Aren't dreams generally just a replay of your memories?" 

Methos smiled, but it looked somewhat forced. "Are you remembering me, then?" 

Duncan reached out daringly and brushed his fingers through the strands of Methos' short, dark hair. Oh, it was soft! He brought his hand to his face and rested his fingertips lightly upon his lips. Methos watched him with an air of startled, strongly controlled confusion. Duncan restrained a chuckle. That's your standard response to unforeseen dilemmas, Old Man. Do nothing. But I hope it's surprise and not revulsion! "Right now, I can't see you with long hair. But it looks perfectly natural on you in my dreams." 

Methos' smile was his normal one this time. That mischief-filled curl at the edge of his lips was always so appealing. "Tell me more," he said silkily. 

Duncan returned the smile. "No, there's not much more to say. Just you and I, together." He lowered his eyes, then brought them back up in imitation of one of Methos' most enticing actions. Was there a flush to his friend's cheeks? Good beginning, if that expression in Methos meant what it did in Duncan. 

Methos lifted his head and smiled. "I brought you a gift." 

"What is it?" Duncan leaned forward, elated. Methos had brought him something! Pity if it was not a courting gesture. He had never courted a man before, but it could not be so different. 

Methos got up and moved to his duffel bag. He opened it and drew out a small, rectangular package wrapped in bright green paper, complete with a bow. He brought it back to the table and presented it to Duncan, without sitting down. Duncan reached out one hand for the package and, trying to make it look like an accident, let it slip through his fingers and fall to the floor. 

"Methos, I'm sorry!" he gasped, getting up quickly and coming around to bend down with Methos to retrieve the package. He thought it looked like a book. 

"It's all right, MacLeod," Methos said with mild exasperation. 

Duncan was careful to trap Methos' fingers under his on the package. The flesh felt cool and, as they stood together, he frowned and tightened his grip on the fingers. 

This close he could tempt himself to go closer. A tilt of his head and his chin almost touched Methos' neck. Excitement and fear combined. He held his breath and did not close the remaining distance. Forcing himself to be steady, he said, "It feels like a book." 

He lifted his eyes to find Methos studying him, expression not quite blank. Then Methos smiled just a little. "What else would I give you but a book?" 

"Indeed," Duncan purred. "Help me open it?" 

Methos nodded, his eyes dropping away from Duncan's. As they carefully took off the wrapping, he said, "I thought you should read something recent." 

The book was hardbound, in mint condition. Duncan read the title and chuckled. "John Steinbeck's 'A Russian Journal.' Recent?" He looked askance at Methos, who flushed. 

"At least it was published in 1948. You and your opera..." he sounded offended. 

Duncan brushed his fingers lightly across Methos'. "What do you like about this book?" 

Methos shifted sheepishly. He swept his eyes upwards to meet Duncan's, then back down to the book. "I like the way he wrote. He spoke to his audience, not to himself." He slipped his fingers along the pages and flipped the book open to a page he seemed to find unerringly. "This passage is one of my favorites," he said, pointing. 

Duncan let his shoulder press against Methos' as he looked at the page. It was around the beginning of Chapter 5. He cleared his throat and read aloud, deliberately keeping his voice deep and caressing. "Capa awakens in the morning slowly and delicately, as a butterfly comes out of its chrysalis. For an hour after he awakens, he sits in stunned and experimental silence, neither awake nor asleep. My problem was to keep him from taking a book or a newspaper into the bathroom, for then he would be there for at least an hour. I began to prepare three intellectual questions for him every morning, questions in sociology, in history, in philosophy, in biology, questions designed to shock his mind into awareness that the day was come." 

Duncan paused to take a deep breath and risk a glance at Methos' face. His heart warmed when he saw that Methos had closed his eyes and was listening, lips barely parted. Duncan smiled and let his cheek brush Methos'. He continued to read, softening his voice even more. "On the first day of my experiment I asked him the following questions: What Greek tragedian took part in the battle of Salamis? How many legs has an insect? And, finally, what was the name of the pope who sponsored and collected the Gregorian chants? Capa sprang from his bed with a look of pain on his face, sat staring at the window for a moment, and then rushed to the bathroom with a copy of a Russian newspaper which he could not read. And he was gone for an hour and a half." 

He paused and chuckled softly. He glanced again at Methos' face and saw a tender smile curling his lips. Duncan decided not to say his thought, that Steinbeck's experiment had backfired, and continued to read. "Every morning, for two or three weeks, I prepared the questions for him, and he never answered one of them, but he got to muttering to himself most of the day, and he complained bitterly that he could not sleep in anticipation of the questions in the morning. However, there was no evidence, except his word, that he could not sleep. He claimed that the horror created in his mind by my questions had set him back intellectually forty years, or, roughly, to minus ten years." 

It occurred to him that in some ways, this description of Robert Capa reminded him of Methos. Loved to be questioned but seldom answered. But I've done with reading. Methos' eyes were still closed, his lips still slightly parted and Duncan shifted and closed his own lips over those. 

He felt Methos catch his breath, heard the book flutter to the floor. Methos' hands caught at his shoulder and pulled him closer. He himself wrapped his arms around the Eldest and delved as deep as he could into the mouth that opened to him. Methos gasped and clung to him, and that was wonderful as he explored the tall, yielding body with his hands. 

He broke the kiss, feeling euphoric, and started to pull at the bottom of Methos' sweater. The Eldest intercepted his hands and pulled back, still flushed and trembling. Duncan studied the shy nervousness that stood alongside the bright heat in Methos' eyes. I'm moving too fast for him. Duncan smiled gently and let Methos go. Offer him a little time. We are Immortal. "Would you have dinner with me again? Tomorrow night?" 

Methos looked startled, but slowly an answering smile formed on his lips. "I would like that, yes." He frowned then, staring down at Duncan's shoes. "Have you done this before?" he asked, his voice tentative. 

Duncan hesitated before answering, but he knew he should tell the truth. "Not since I was a teenager." 

At that Methos' head came up, his gaze sharp and gauging on Duncan. "You're sure about that? You seem to know what you're doing." 

Duncan felt himself go hot with embarrassment. "I told you, I've been dreaming about you - about us - often." 

Methos' gaze softened and he chuckled. "Must be pretty often. I would enjoy dinner with you tomorrow, MacLeod. But for now... it's probably best if I go home." He did not look happy about that decision even as he spoke. 

Duncan nodded, relieved that Methos was not rejecting him because of his inexperience. "I'll read the book tonight," he said softly, a promise. 

Methos blushed and nodded. 

* * *

From almost the very beginning of the first chapter, Duncan had an idea of why Methos had given him this particular book. Two bored men, depressed and at loose ends, decide to go together to discover the reality of Russian life as opposed to the ceaseless rumors they have been hearing every day. Seeking facts as opposed to opinion. Time alone together perhaps as well? But they were not depicted as lovers. If they were, would they have admitted it? Not in 1948, that was for certain.

There was something quite deadpan about Steinbeck's delivery, and Duncan increasingly wondered if Robert Capa might have been one of Methos' identities. He read how the two men took over a friend's hotel room in revenge for his not being there to receive their cable that they were coming, and therefore them having no one either to pick them up or to make certain they had their own hotel room. They drank all of his beer. That certainly sounded like Methos. 

He fell asleep with the book beside his head on the pillow. 

And in the night, he dreamed. 

* * *

He was searching for Methos in the woods. It was dark, the moon had vanished from the sky. Portents of danger, he might have said in his youth. A thunder of hoofbeats spun him around. A horse crashed through the underbrush, its shoulder slammed against him and knocked him down, its hooves smashed his left leg. Before he could think to move despite his pain, the rider was down and on him.

"WHERE IS HE?" the rider demanded. Mad, blue eyes blazed into his. Foul breath scorched his face. 

"I don't know!" It came to him that Methos was fleeing this man every time he fled their bed. 

Sneering, the rider said, "Then I'll just take you in his stead." 

The next instant Duncan found himself naked, tied standing against a post in a dark tent. The man touched him and his skin blackened and split, aching pain shredding him. "You really should keep your hands to yourself," the man said. Then he forced Duncan's legs apart and thrust his cock inside. 

Duncan went blind with the pain but he heard someone shout, "Lucius! Leave him be!" 

* * *

A scream broke through the pain and jerked him free. He whirled to fight and found himself tangled in sheets, opening his eyes to the interior of the barge. The pain was gone, a shadowy memory. The ringing of his alarm clock had woken him again. He shut it off, shaken.

Hell of a dream, he thought as he made himself breakfast. In the midst of a sip of coffee, he remembered asking Methos if dreams were not simply a replay of memories. And the look on Methos' face, asking him if he had done this before. Aside from the general unease the dream had left him with, he suddenly felt cold. Methos had been a Watcher for ten years. Does he know something I don't remember? Did I block a time that I was taken prisoner and raped by someone named Lucius? 

It would had to have been when he was very young, when he was still near Glenfinnan. He had to talk to Joe. 

* * *

They met about ten in the morning at Maurice's bar. Duncan did not mention the rape or Methos, but he told Joe the remaining fragments of the dream.

Joe looked quite puzzled. Either he was being cagey, or he really did not know. "You want me to find out if you were taken prisoner by someone named Lucius when you were still in Glenfinnan?" 

"Is there anything in your records, Joe?" Duncan asked determinedly. "Please, this is very important to me." 

"Is he Immortal?" 

"No, I -" Duncan broke off, frowning. Something seemed to nag at him. He tried to focus on it, but could not grasp it. "I'm not sure. I don't remember feeling him, but I need to know if he existed or not." 

Joe looked as puzzled as Duncan felt. He shook his head. "I'll look into the records. I don't know, though. I can't remember anything in your journals about anyone named Lucius." 

* * *

Joe came to the barge around four o'clock. "What are you making?" he asked when Duncan ushered him inside.

"Oh, I'm making dinner for Methos tonight. I'm hoping to surprise him with something a little less than exotic." 

Joe took one look in the oven and chuckled. "Whooee. Rib-roast. How romantic." 

The remark slipped by unnoticed in Duncan's impatience. "Hey, it tastes great in the hands of a man like myself." He watched as Joe made his stiff way to the couch and settled heavily into it. "Do you want a beer?" 

"Yeah, sure." 

The salad was in the refrigerator, the roast was in the oven. Duncan handed Joe a beer and settled himself in the chair opposite his friend. "Did you find out anything?" he asked. He felt like a nervous rabbit, waiting to run at the slightest movement from a hunter. He took a deep breath. 

"You know, I'm glad you asked me this in Paris, and not in Seacouver. For one thing, most of the old records are here. Do you have any idea what a guy has to go through to dig up really obscure information?" 

Joe was almost stuttering. He looked everywhere but directly at Duncan, who finally said, "Take a drink, please." 

"Bah," Joe said half-heartedly. He drained half the glass. 

"Joe, what did you find out?" 

"All right, all right." Joe set the glass down with a thump and leaned forward. "At first I couldn't find anything out. There was no mention anywhere in the records of a Lucius in connection with you." He stopped and looked down for a moment, then back up. "There is now." 

"Well?" Duncan heard the whine in his voice and tried to clamp down on it. He took a breath, trying to sound nonchalant. "I'm a big boy, Joe. I want to know what happened." 

Joe eyed him doubtfully. "Do you?" They were silent for some time, staring at each other. Duncan put on his most calm expression, then resorted to widening his eyes and letting his lower lip stick out just a bit. Joe relented with a sigh. "Lucius was Immortal. He died in 1612, in the Donan Woods." 

"1612? But Joe, that was before I became Immortal!" 

"Yeah, I know. That's why there was nothing about him in your records. If Methos hadn't known about him, I wouldn't have found anything." 

Startled, Duncan straightened up in the chair. "Methos helped you?" 

"I told him you were asking for information about someone named Lucius, and he said a Lucius had lost his head in the Donan Woods. So I had to dig through our files on deceased Immortals. And there he was." 

"Joe, what is his connection with me?" 

Joe shifted uncomfortably on the couch. He seemed to be girding himself for revelations. "Lucius was the son of some high muckety-muck in Rome. He met his first death in 112 AD. The family slave and tutor was another Immortal, Herodotus, who escaped after Lucius had him flogged to death." Joe took a long sip of his beer and continued. "Lucius stumbled upon Herodotus every few centuries. In 1602, he pursued him onto the English Isles." 

When Joe fell silent, Duncan held his breath until he could bear it no more. "What happened?" 

Joe brushed his hair back and sighed again. "Lucius took a lone hunter prisoner, and was taking out his frustrations on him. Herodotus killed his way through the guards --" 

"And he took Lucius' head." Duncan closed his hands tight upon the arms of the chair to hide their trembling. The hairs on his skin stood on end. 

"Yes." 

"I was the hunter." 

"Yes." 

Duncan's flesh was crawling. A memory that had lost significance three-hundred and eighty-six years earlier gained it again. He drew a shuddering breath. "I wanted to be the one who brought back the biggest game for a feast we were going to have. But the boar I was after got me and broke my leg. I remember bedding down for the night, but when I woke up it was four days later. My leg had been skillfully dressed... there was a cart and two horses hitched up nearby. In the cart-bed was a huge, dead boar. I was afraid I'd spent the night with the Fae, and would not recognize my village when I came back to it." 

"You can't remember anything about those four days?" 

"I think I'm beginning to remember. Lucius raped me, and Herodotus rescued me. But why -" 

"You were lovers. Lucius raped you, and Herodotus made you forget." 

A spear of icy shock stabbed through Duncan. "How?!" 

"I don't know. Maybe he hypnotized you. Maybe he has powers, like Cassandra and Kantos." 

Duncan closed his eyes. "What makes you think we were lovers?" Try as he might, he could not bring up any image to go with the name. He did not even feel emptiness where memories of a lover should be. 

"You weren't Lucius' only prisoner. There was a girl, also. She was recruited into the Watchers in 1620." He chuckled suddenly. "She was the last Watcher who knew anything about Herodotus. He rescued her at the same time as he did you. She wrote that..." he trailed off and took another swallow of his drink. 

Duncan leaned forward anxiously. "What, Joe? What did she say?" 

Joe bowed his head for a long moment before meeting Duncan's eyes. "I'm not sure I can credit it." 

"JOE!" 

The words poured fourth at his demand. "She said Lucius had broken you. She said you begged Herodotus to let you be his slave." 

Duncan closed his eyes. Yes, that would fit. He said quietly, "Lucius raped me. In my clan, men didn't get raped. A man who let that happen and didn't kill, or die, to defend his honor was... not a man. He was nothing." 

"You were very young," Joe pointed out. 

Duncan opened his eyes and met the steady, sympathetic gaze. He swallowed past a lump in his throat. "Yes, I was." Barely older than Richie. And what had happened had only happened, it was not his fault. It did not change him in any way. But it would have if he had not forgotten - darkness gathered at the edges of his sight. The room shifted around him and Joe's face blurred from his sight. For a moment everything cleared and he drew a breath to speak. Then the floor dropped away beneath him as he fell. 

* * *

He woke stretched out on the couch, his legs elevated on pillows and the scent of the rib-roast all around him. He focused on the voices he heard from the direction of the stove. Joe's gravelly tones sounded deep in his skull. "This was a first for me."

The answering voice took Duncan the rest of the way out of darkness and made him smile. Methos was speaking in his gentle, half-shy Adam-Pierson voice. "What? It's not every day you have an Immortal faint on you?" 

Joe's answer made Duncan chuckle. "He didn't 'faint', he 'passed out'. Men aren't allowed to faint." 

They heard Duncan and came quickly to his side. Methos, by benefit of his long legs, was first. "Sleeping Beauty awakens," he said, his tone so warm and gentle it took away any hint of sting. 

Duncan reached up and Methos helped him sit. He pouted. "But no one kissed me." 

Joe groaned and shook his head. "Four hundred years old, and you still can't tell a joke." 

"What makes you think I'm joking?" Duncan quipped back. He shook his head to soothe the memories jostling for supremacy. It had waited three hundred and eighty six years. It could wait a little while longer. At least as long as it took to politely get Joe to leave him alone with Methos. 

He saw an expression of realization cross his friend's face. Joe was looking down at his and Methos' still-joined hands. "Well," Joe said, crossing his palms on top of his cane. "I think you're in capable hands, wouldn't you agree, Mac?" 

Duncan shook himself, holding Methos' fingers more tightly within his own. "Uh, yes, I would." 

"I'll just be taking my leave, then. Got a lot of updating to do in your chronicles." This last was a parting shot over his shoulder, accompanied by a smirk as he headed for the door. 

"Ah, Joe...!" Duncan protested, starting to get up. 

Methos shook his head and pushed Duncan back on the couch. They waited until the door closed behind Joe with a click. Then Methos turned very serious and met Duncan's eyes. "Are you all right?" 

"I remember." 

Methos nodded and cleared his throat. "I thought you might." 

"Are you ever going to tell Joe?" 

Methos raised his head and looked for all the world like the innocent mortal he claimed not to remember being. "Tell him what?" 

"That Herodotus is one of your aliases," Duncan chided him, reaching out to touch his face. He ran his fingertips along the smooth jawline. There were many things he wanted to say, many things he wanted to ask. He drew a deep breath. "How did you take away my memory?" 

Methos blinked, his eyes liquid in the barge's lighting. "You were very open to suggestion. Especially from me." 

Duncan snorted and cupped Methos' chin. "Don't even try and tell me it was that simple." 

"MacLeod," Methos protested softly, shifting uneasily, "I can't really explain it. A lot of us do it, in many ways. YOU do it." 

"I don't do anything!" Duncan protested, lifting his head sharply. Do I? he wondered. He could think of nothing that he did that would change a person's memories. 

"Unconsciously. When you want someone to trust you, you reach out and push your will on theirs. People who are frightened or simply attracted to you have little resistance." He smiled slightly and touched his hands to Duncan's cheeks. "Like this." 

The barge dropped away in a swirl of darkness. With slow, enticing music, the air filled with familiar scents that called back almost four centuries. They knelt together, surrounded by the trees and woods of Duncan's childhood. "Donan Woods," he whispered in surprise. He met Methos' shining eyes. 

The colors swirled now, fading not into the same darkness, but the dark of the barge. The woods' scent vanished into his memory. It was almost like - or was it exactly like? - what Cassandra had once done, to send him back to talk with his childhood self. 

Duncan pulled his arms in and sat all the way up, unnerved. Impossible. "I do THAT?!" 

Methos reached out and captured his hands, holding him firmly. "EVERYone does it, MacLeod. Mortals; Immortals; consciously or unconsciously. It takes either an exceptional talent or a particularly long period of study before one can do it deliberately. What I did was not that difficult. I turned you from your memories of Lucius. You wanted to forget him anyway. Which meant you couldn't remember me." Methos sagged as he said that last. His eyes fell from Duncan's. He looked as sad and miserable as he had when Alexa was dying. 

"Methos...." Duncan wrapped his arms about his friend and held him tight. You continued on, cold and alone, rather than take me from my mortal life. The generosity of Methos' spirit was astonishing in its demonstration. They held each other for several minutes before Duncan broke the silence. "Did it hurt to realize I still didn't remember you?" 

Methos shook his head against Duncan's chest. "All I could think was how strong and confident you were. I couldn't resist you." He laughed suddenly. "And you asked nothing of me." 

"Not then. I owe you so much." 

"No." 

"Yes," Duncan whispered back. How utterly different my life would have been if you'd taken me with you. I can't imagine it. I'm so glad you let me go. "Methos, why did it take me so long to remember?" 

"I told you. You would remember when you were too strong for it to break you." 

"But SO long?" 

Methos wrapped an arm around Duncan's neck. "It's easier to say, 'I didn't deserve what happened to me, I didn't ASK for what happened to me', than to believe it." 

"Hm." Of course. It was there, within him. A sort of peace. Just like the peace he found when he had realized that Richie's death was not his fault. That was when he had started to realize... that he was attracted to Methos, was it not? Yes, it was.... 

Methos said mournfully, "Are we ever going to eat?" 

It was too much. They burst out laughing and helped each other to their feet. 

* * *

With the rib-roast on the table and Methos settled in a chair, Duncan excused himself to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror and chuckled. He had to admit he looked ecstatic. I've got him back! He knew why he had never taken another male lover. Though he had not been able to remember, at some level he was searching for the same greyhound slimness, the mystery and wisdom lurking within laughing golden eyes.

Duncan shook his head and quickly got out of his clothes. He snatched his white, terrycloth robe off the hook and put it on, tying the belt just tight enough. The robe would require continual adjustment. He grinned, anticipating the heat it would generate throughout the meal. Oh, Methos. You let me have my way. Now I can return the favor. He ran a brush through his hair once, just to smooth it. 

When he stepped out of the bathroom, Methos looked up and simply stared, clearly mesmerized. Duncan strode over to him and took a piece of the rib-roast. He knelt at Methos' feet and offered the meat to him, tilting his head innocently. 

Methos uttered a soft laugh and blushed. "Trying to show me how much you remember?" 

"Mmmhmm," Duncan nodded, edging himself between his soon-to-be-lover's knees. As Methos bit delicately into the meat, Duncan let his pinkies stroke the fair face. The faint trails of sauce they left on the skin appealed to him. His bathrobe parted as he shifted still closer. Methos stripped the meat from the bone in a few bites and began to suckle Duncan's fingers clean. Shivering at the sensations that danced through his skin, Duncan drew back, dropping his hands to rest on Methos' thighs. 

Methos closed his eyes, then opened them to gaze steadily into Duncan's. "What do you want?" he asked in a low, husky tone. 

Duncan shook his head, not trusting his voice. After a moment he whispered with a grin, "I want you to have your wicked way with me." 

Methos leaned down and brushed his lips across Duncan's, who parted his and invited a deeper touch. Almost shyly, Methos accepted, letting his tongue caress the skin behind Duncan's teeth. The sensation was deeply erotic and Duncan wiggled closer. Methos shuddered, drew back and whispered, "I don't need anything you aren't ready to give." 

Duncan ran his fingers across Methos' cheekbone, marveling at the fine features. He shook his head again. "When Lucius raped me, I thought of you. I thought I'd raped you because you didn't know... that you didn't have to let me take you. I wished I'd let you take me, instead." He ran his hands down Methos' arms and gripped him by the wrists. "I thought at least then I'd have known the pleasure I could feel from being taken. I still think that. Show me?" 

Methos shivered and slid his hands onto Duncan's chest, letting his fingers roam freely under the robe. "You do know how to set out an irresistible invitation, don't you?" 

"I hope so," Duncan whispered. 

Methos slipped from the chair to wrap himself around Duncan. "Surely you're hungry?" he said, reaching up and bringing his plate down. 

"Now, don't start that again," Duncan chided softly. 

Methos snuggled against him and deftly lifted a piece of meat to his mouth. "I never start anything." 

Duncan smiled and took the meat between his teeth. He leaned forward and stroked it against Methos' lips. For a moment the two men both had the meat in their teeth and tried playfully to tug it away from each other. Duncan let it go at last and nuzzled Methos' neck as he chewed. "Were you Robert Capa?" 

Methos sounded surprised. "Why do you ask?" 

"He sounds a lot like you." 

Methos laughed. "In what way?" 

"He spoke Spanish like a Hungarian, French like a Spaniard, German like a Frenchman, and English with an accent that no one could identify." 

"He didn't speak Russian," Methos pointed out, chuckling. 

"Well, that was over fifty years ago." 

Methos cuddled in closer. "No. Not him. He was too public a figure." After a moment he added, "He was a good friend of mine. Used to get angry with me because I wouldn't let him do a portrait study of me. He liked my nose." 

"I like your nose, too." 

"I love it when you talk dirty," Methos murmured. He slid Duncan's robe off the left shoulder and leaned in to press his ear against the firm chest. He sighed, listening to the thud of a heartbeat. "I love it that you're alive." He captured Duncan's head between his palms and kissed him. For a long time they simply drowned, eyes closed, bodies tight together, tongues exploring and teasing each other. Duncan broke the kiss with a gasp, surging up as his lover slid his robe down to his hips. Methos pushed him back and lay atop him, nibbling across his shoulder blades. 

"God," Duncan whispered, and clenched his arms tight around Methos' shoulders. 

Methos made a noise of mock annoyance and struggled until Duncan let him go. He settled contentedly back, sitting on Duncan's crotch, and continued his exploration, rocking gently. "Tasty," he murmured before he captured a nipple between his teeth. 

"Wow." 

Methos let his nipple go. "Hmm. 'God' and 'wow'. I knew you appreciated me." 

Duncan slid his hands up Methos' thighs and held him still, arching to slowly rub their crotches together. He chuckled as Methos closed his eyes, mouth dropping open in a gasp. "More?" he asked teasingly. 

"And I thought it was I who would have my wicked way." 

"Shhhh. You talk too much." 

Methos shut his mouth and nodded, trembling. Duncan slid his sweater slowly up his body. Methos bent forward to let it be slipped off his arms, and used the opportunity to kiss Duncan. He rocked again and caused a burst of sharp need to spiral up from Duncan's groin. Then he started to get up. Duncan made a protesting noise and Methos touched a silencing finger to his lips. 

Duncan watched Methos cross the barge to the drawer next to his bed. He did not even rummage. When he turned around he held the lubricant in his hands. Duncan stared, stunned. "How did you know that was there?" 

Methos' grinned. "I go through your drawers every time I'm alone here." 

"That's just great," Duncan muttered, trying to hold back a laugh. A bored Methos was a terrible thing to waste. 

The eldest Immortal of all took another bottle from the pocket of his abandoned coat, came back to Duncan and settled again down upon his thighs. He untied the robe and left it lying pooled on the floor. Then he poured a tiny amount of the oil from the other bottle onto his palms and rubbed to warm it. Duncan sighed, staring in delight at Methos' bare torso. "You know, you were the first man I ever knew without hair on his chest?" 

"And you said I talk too much," Methos whispered. He dropped his oiled fingers down to Duncan's temples and rubbed gently, rocking again. 

Duncan groaned as his body turned to jelly. The only thing that still seemed to have stiffness sparked and pulsed against Methos' crotch. Feeling traveled in waves from his temples to his toes, and he could not have named the sensations. Methos brought a sense of barrier back by kissing him, running his tongue deep into Duncan's mouth. With almost desperation, Duncan suckled on the invader and tried to tangle it with his own tongue. 

Then Methos moved down, slipping his hands onto Duncan's pectorals and slowly rubbing. He sucked the left nipple into his mouth and the chain of pulsing pleasure began again, rolling with greater intensity through Duncan's body. The other nipple, and hands slowly exploring Duncan's ribcage. He's going down, Duncan realized, feeling Methos wriggle against his thighs. Down to slowly tongue his inner thighs, to brush that strong nose slowly up Duncan's cock. To slip a slick, electrifying tongue into the slit at its tip. He thought his heart would stop. His hands moved of their own accord, trying to push the teasing head down onto his cock. Methos obliged. 

Duncan found he wanted Methos to be more aggressive. The gentleness was driving him wild. He skimmed his fingers through the short hairs and thrust up. Methos moved with him, chuckling. The talented mouth left his cock and he groaned. 

Methos touched his chin and gazed him in the eye with a fond smile. "Why such a hurry?" 

Duncan shuddered with the tingling that kept rolling through his nerves. He smiled back and tried to speak through his hunger. "I've been waiting for you almost all my life." 

Methos flushed and ducked his head. "Well, now you've got me. Turn over." 

"Here?!" Duncan exclaimed. Surprise and a small measure of disappointment made him frown. 

Methos frowned back at him. "Where, then?" 

"Well, I was kind of thinking of the bed." He stuck out his lower lip and tried to glare, but he had no anger or indignation, only want. 

Methos, however, pushed himself to his knees and looked around towards the bed as if he had forgotten it existed. "Oh. We HAVE one of those, don't we? I've done without for so much of my life." 

Duncan groaned and sat up. He touched Methos' chin and drew him into a kiss, slowly slipping his tongue inside. He felt the eldest go limp against him with a little mewling sound of pleasure. The kiss muffled Methos' yelp of surprise when Duncan heaved him up into his arms and began making his way towards the bed. Methos was laughing into his mouth by the time he collapsed on the bed. 

"That was fun, let's do it again!" he quipped cheerfully. But the way he rubbed the length of his body against Duncan's made it impossible to think, much less lift him up. 

"YOU are entirely too dressed," Duncan growled, snapping open Methos' jeans. He slid them slowly down the long thighs, admiring the erection revealed. Just as I remember, he thought with considerable satisfaction. Long and thick and beautiful. Hungering, he leaned down and licked it slowly. Clean and salty. Nice, especially the way Methos shivered at the touch. Duncan worked up some saliva and took him in his mouth. The low moan of appreciation encouraged him, and he ran his tongue around the head, going down as far as he could. The taste of it! The taste of Methos' hunger and need for him. It felt good. 

"God!" came the sharp gasp. 

Despite himself, Duncan started to chuckle and almost choked. He pulled up and grinned. "Now, THAT'S appreciation." 

Methos groaned. "We're never going to get anywhere tonight if we keep this up." 

Duncan pouted playfully "But I thought that was the idea?" 

Methos curled up and snugged his head under Duncan's chin. It felt good, too, this simple holding. "You're such a cuddler," Duncan whispered, wrapping his arms tightly around the broad shoulders. A thought occured to him. "Do you... do you prefer bottom?" 

The muffled response, "Could care less," was not quite informative. Methos pulled his head back slightly. "What you want is what I want to give." 

Duncan caught his breath. As Methos had given Alexa everything she wanted, so he was offering the same to Duncan. "You're like this with any lover, aren't you? Why?" 

Methos seemed to still against him. A thoughtful silence and then, "Because I've outlived them all." Unsaid was, I want to make them happy, for the short time they have. 

Duncan squeezed him close. "Well, I want everything. I want to feel YOU come deep inside me -" he smiled as Methos shivered and moaned "- know how strong you are, taking me. In, and out -" 

"Jesus, Mac!" Methos clapped a palm over Duncan's lips and shook his head. He looked a bit wild, his eyes were glassy and his skin was flushed. "I have too good an imagination to stand your words!" He slid his thumb into Duncan's mouth and followed it with his tongue. This kiss was more demanding than any before, and Duncan felt liquified. The tongue that swiped his was startlingly strong. Methos slid all the way into his lap, legs wrapping around his thighs, an arm around his neck holding their mouths together. Methos' other hand stroked firmly down his back until the long fingers slid into the crack between his buttocks. They paused there, stroking lightly. The sensation was almost lost as Methos rocked against him, their erections pressing firmly together. 

Eventually the fingers moved further, and perhaps only one slipped inside his body. He was not certain, for he was lost in the overwhelming surge of silver-sharp need that soared through the core of his being. Then Methos was moving them until they were lying on their sides, probably on the bed. At least, he was sure they were on a bed but he could feel nothing except Methos. His mouth, his body, his fingers. Wow. 

The fount of life, the source of his universe, moved around his body. Duncan vaguely recognized the coolness of the sheets against his chest, the heat of Methos against his back. Powerful, strong hands urged his thighs apart, kneaded his buttocks. Duncan could not stop himself from moving. He spread his legs wider, rubbing his cock against the bed, felt the sheets sticking to his skin, damp with his sweat. There was a sharp iron scent in the air. Methos' hands slicked along his back then down again, and fingers made their way into his body on a wave of sensation. He thought he was begging, but he could not breathe. His nipples scratched against the sheets with ecstatic pain/pleasure. 

He knew the exact moment when Methos entered him with cock rather than fingers. His body shook with ecstasy even as he shrank from the strained pain of entry. They were wet, their skins slipping against each other. Hot, surely the barge's portholes were white with steam. Methos' teeth bit into his shoulder, fingers stroked the hair back from his forehead as he tried to lift himself, to receive more. 

And the pleasure took him. It took them both in an eruption as overwhelming as any volcano. From the ends of his hair to his toes, his body throbbed. His heart slammed painfully before settling into a slower cadence of relief. Aware that he was not alone, feeling a deep-seated satisfaction and love emanate from Methos, Duncan fell into warm, enveloping darkness. 

* * *

"Wooga," was Methos' comment hours later.

"Wooga?" 

"Would you prefer 'Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious'? I speak Disney, you know." 

"Go to sleep, Methos, love." 

"Aye-aye, sir. With love."


End file.
